


blow my whistle

by rxpunzels



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Eventual Smut, M/M, MeetCute, Next Door Neighbors, Rom-Com Levels of Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24041974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxpunzels/pseuds/rxpunzels
Summary: Eddie's peacefully unpacking his stack of linen shirts when he hears it: a piercing whistle that permeates the walls of his apartment with seemingly no effort.At once, he drops the shirts and straightens up. Is this a fire alarm? Oh shit, is the boiler about to explode?As far as he knows, the alarms have more of a beeping rhythmic sound to them. They sure as hell don’t send out an alarm which sounds suspiciously like a clunky, reedy and entirely off-key rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On’ by Celine Dion.a.k.a the fic where Eddie and Richie are next door neighbours and Richie's favourite hobby is (badly) playing the recorder.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 47
Kudos: 644





	blow my whistle

**Author's Note:**

> So I asked for writing prompts on Twitter and my friend Paige simply said 'Richie annoying Eddie with a recorder'. I fully expected to have this done and dusted in less than 2k words, but then this whole ridiculous piece of nonsense ran away from me and turned into the nearly 13k monstrosity it is today, complete with my first foray into explicit smut. So there's that.
> 
> Anyway, here it is and have at it! I hope you enjoy it, Paige, and anyone else who's dealt with my weird all-nighter through which this fic came to be.

When Eddie signed the lease for his new apartment, he’d been pretty sure that he’d made the right choice. The building was clean, had a working elevator, and the rules had explicitly stated that there was a strict no-smoking rule so he wouldn’t have to worry about inhaling any second-hand cigarette smoke from his neighbours. Plus, it had a gym in the basement, a walk-in closet and, most importantly, Myra was nowhere in sight.

The amicableness of his divorce left a lot to be desired, but when it became clear to Eddie that there was no recovering his marriage (much less, anything to recover in the first place) he’d done what he thought was a noble thing and asked Myra for a divorce. It wasn’t something she had taken lightly but three months down the line after developing a crick in his neck from sleeping on Ben and Bev’s sofa, he’s finally gotten an apartment of his own.

He hadn’t received any warning about the _noise_ of the place though.

He’s peacefully unpacking his stack of linen shirts when he hears it: a piercing whistle that permeates the walls of his apartment with seemingly no effort.

At once, he drops the shirts and straightens up. Is this a fire alarm? Oh shit, is the boiler about to explode?

His feet hurriedly carry him across the hardwood floors, but he stops himself from immediately yanking the door open. He doesn’t _think_ it’s a fire alarm, because for one, he doesn’t smell any smoke or hear a stampeding of feet from the hallway and, as far as he knows, those alarms have more of a beeping rhythmic sound to them. They sure as hell don’t send out an alarm which sounds suspiciously like a clunky, reedy and entirely off-key rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On’ by Celine Dion.

He continues to hover by his door and listens. There’s no need to strain because the music (he’s using the term very loosely) has no problem reaching him.

There’s one particularly sharp and pitchy note and Eddie’s whole body goes rigid with discomfort.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he mutters, throwing his door open and stepping out into the hallway in his sock-clad feet.

The racket seems clearer here, if that’s possible. Eddie can feel his left eyelid twitching.

The closer he walks to his neighbour’s door, the music gets louder and should that song continue to attempt to maintain an association with the RMS Titanic, Eddie is ready to start believing that the goddamn iceberg had some good ideas.

He lifts his fist and hammers loudly on the door. The shapeless whistling abruptly cuts off and he stands with one hand on his hip, his feet thudding gently against the ground in what would be a frustrated tap-tap-tapping if he was wearing any shoes.

The door swings open and Eddie is met with – a chest. Sandwiched by the broadest pair of shoulders he’s ever seen. Long hairy arms protrude from a black t-shirt and in one hand, there it is. A bright and obnoxiously yellow recorder.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“No,” comes the cheerful reply and Eddie is forced to drag his gaze up. “I’m Richie. I think Mr Kiddingme’s on the next floor.”

“What?” Eddie snaps, squinting at the man in front of him.

He’s tall and Eddie immediately decides that he hates that. He’s also grinning like this whole thing is a joke, eyes crinkling at the sides behind tortoise-rimmed glasses. A beanie is jammed on his head but brown hair is still managing to curl out from the sides. All in all, he doesn’t look bad and the only reason Eddie will even acknowledge that is because he’s long since stopped punishing himself for finding men attractive.

Objectively, he can admit that this man has an aesthetically pleasing face and is somehow Eddie’s exact type and he’s only saying that to himself because it’s healthy for him to stop shutting those thoughts up. That doesn’t mean he won’t also assume, right away from the smartass comment and unrepentant smile, that this guy is a pain in the backside.

And not in like, the fun way. God, that’s a stupid thing to think. Why is he fucking here again?

“Richie,” the guy pipes up. “That’s my name.” He leans his head out into the hallway and peers around at Eddie’s open doorway. “Oh, we’re neighbours!”

Eddie’s whole arm tightens as he swings his hand up by his head, and karate chops the air. “That’s not why I’m here.”

He jabs an accusing finger at the recorder. “What the hell is that?”

Richie lifts up the instrument as if to study it. “A recorder?” He’s trying hard to hide a smile, Eddie can fucking tell. His bottom lip is trapped between his front teeth but Eddie can still see the corners of it twitching upwards. He might kill this man.

“What are you doing, trying to murder it?” Eddie asks, cocking his head to the side with a ferocity that nearly makes his neck snap. He hides a wince by lifting his eyebrows in askance.

This time, Richie doesn’t even try to stop himself from grinning. He laughs, and it’s only a little laugh, but he still manages to make a weird snorting sound at the back of his throat.

“No, dude, just playing it.”

“Well, you can’t play for shit.”

And then something horrible happens.

Richie’s whole frame just… wilts. His shoulders droop suddenly and he bows his head, wrapping both hands around the recorder and staring down at it.

“Oh,” he says softly.

Eddie’s stomach drops. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay,” Richie says, quickly shaking his head. “I should’ve known I’d be no good.”

Eddie is mortified. His whole face is burning as he tries to think of a way to rectify this because the guy in front of him looks fucking _broken_.

“I’m sure you’ll get better,” he tries.

“Thanks for the kind words,” Richie says, his expression solemn. “But you’re right. I’m no good.”

“I don’t…”

“Papa always said I’d amount to nothing,” Richie sighs wistfully. “You’ll never make music, he told me. He knew all along I had no talent.”

Eddie absently wonders if he’s about to enter into his very first stroke. Is it too late for him to find another place to stay?

“He’d tell me to play football, join the wrestling team, anything but try to play the recorder. He told me I had to think about getting a real job in the mines, not prance about in tutus all the time.”

Eddie lifts his head and frowns. Before he can open his mouth to ask, Richie makes a hushing noise, holding up a finger and hovering it over Eddie’s mouth.

“But my instructor had faith in me. She thought I’d go far. Now I think about it, maybe she was just humouring me. Telling me I had talent. I’d tell Papa I was going to boxing lessons, when really I was…” Richie wipes a finger under his eye. “Playing Merrily We Roll Along.”

Eddie jerks his head back and narrows his eyes.

“We were in the middle of the mining strike, Thatcher was taking our milk, we didn’t have money to send me to school just so I could finally play in the woodwind section.”

It finally hits Eddie and he inhales sharply through his nose, pressing his lips into a thin, unamused line. “Billy Elliot.”

“No, Richie Tozier,” is the quick retort.

“You’re just changing the plot of Billy Elliot,” Eddie nods, his voice even as he’s realising how this conversation is going to go and eventually, he begins walking backwards to his own apartment.

Richie is hanging out of his doorway now, clutching dramatically as his chest. “Our relationship was shattered until I got him to listen to my rendition of The Ruins of Athens one midwinter night.”

“I’m going now,” Eddie called, turning on his heel.

“That’s when I knew how healing the power of music could be!” Richie is all but shouting at this point and Eddie can’t get away quick enough.

“Goodbye.”

“Hey! Wait, wait, wait,” Richie calls after him, the words a hurried garble but at least his volume has dropped a few decibels even if it is still louder than necessary.

“What?” Eddie sighs, hands stretching out wide to pinch his temples with his thumb and middle finger like he always does when he’s trying to stave off an impending headache.

“You didn’t tell me your name.”

Dropping his hand, Eddie lifts his head, staring at his own open doorway before slowly turning around to look back at Richie. The man in question is straddling his threshold, one foot in his apartment and one in the hallway. He’s wearing Bugs Bunny socks.

This time, his smile isn’t smug and Eddie doesn’t get the impression he’s laughing at him. Instead, Richie’s just quirking his lips up, face honest and sincere, and his eyes open and close behind his glasses like every hard blink makes his smile stretch wider. Eddie stares at him for a moment before serving him a dramatic eyeroll.

“Eddie,” he tells him.

Richie nods, like this is a satisfactory reply. He waves his recorder at Eddie with a deft flick of his wrist like he’s brandishing a magic wand.

“See you round then, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Oh _jeeze_ ,” Eddie groans, immediately stepping into his apartment and closing the door on Richie’s cackle, just to make sure the other man can’t see him smile.

___

To Richie’s credit, it takes him a whole two days to start up the recorder again.

Lately, Eddie’s been allowing himself a lie-in on Saturdays. Normally, he’s up at the asscrack of dawn to get ready for work, but on the weekends, he doesn’t set himself an alarm. His neighbour, however, graciously does it for him.

“Shut the fuck up!” Eddie groans, shoving his head underneath his pillow while the crooked, mangled sound of what he thinks is supposed to be The Mickey Mouse Club March (if Mickey Mouse was three notes away from being a forensic detective’s subject of study) tries to fight its way through his bedroom wall.

Either he’s not loud enough or Richie is choosing not to listen to him. The latter is decidedly more plausible.

Eventually, somewhere between the spelling of the M and the K, Eddie throws his duvet cover off and stomps over to his wall and, with the flat of his palm, thuds out a frustrated four beat rhythm.

The music abruptly cuts off and Eddie stares at the wall with a clenched jaw before nodding to himself and turning away.

Then there’s four thuds coming from _Richie’s_ side of the wall.

Eddie stiffens. Slowly, he looks back over his shoulder at his wall. The inoffensive white plaster stares back at him.

He’s better than this, he tells himself. He’s not going to react. He’s going to stay calm and reasonable and oh, what the hell.

Marching forward, he raps his knuckles off the wall in quick succession. Five knocks this time. He waits and, naturally, Richie imitates the noise from his side.

Eddie knows fine well that, at this point, he should just leave it alone. But he’s wide awake now, the morning sun is streaming in through his window and despite the fact that his neighbour noisily woke him up with his crappy recorder tune, the wickedly competitive side of him doesn’t want to be the first one to give up.

This time, he’s a little more _rhythmic_ in his pattern. He knocks out a shave-and-a-haircut pattern, only this time, when he’s expecting Richie to mimic him, he receives a two bits knock in response.

Before he realises it, a smile splits across his face. “Wiseass,” he mutters.

He twists his mouth to the side as he contemplates his next knock and then huffs out a laugh.

“Alright, try this.”

This time, he raises both fists, his left knuckles hitting the walls first, then his right, then his left, then his right again, in quick succession, the same millisecond of silence between each beat. There’s an answering silence and Eddie, convinced that he’s won, doesn’t feel as victorious as he thought he would. Weirdly enough, he’s sort of disappointed.

And then two seconds later, there comes a hesitant _knock-knock_.

Rushing forward, Eddie knocks his own beat against the wall again and this time there’s barely any pause before Richie answers with his own two notes.

As is routine in the song they’re playing, Eddie plays the next part with his fist, tapping the same rhythm not once, not twice, but three times and Richie rounds it off with a very loud two knocks as is customary for The Addams Family theme song and Eddie grins so wide his cheeks hurt.

“Quit the recorder!” he yells through the wall.

Richie’s answering yell is deafening and Eddie pulls his head away. “And take up percussion?”

He really hopes that Richie can somehow hear his eye roll as he finally backs away and heads towards the kitchen. Just as he’s pouring his wholegrain cereal into a bowl, he’s caught off-guard by the ugly, unnatural screech of the recorder rendition of the song they’d just been tapping out to each other.

Eddie stares at his cereal for a moment before tipping his head back and letting out a laugh. That smug, annoying asshole.

___

The next time Eddie sees Richie, he’s heading into work.

He steps into the elevator and pushes the button for the lobby. Just as the doors begin to close, a gangly, long-limbed jackass hurtles through the gap between them and nearly crashes into Eddie who promptly drops his briefcase.

Despite his newfound freedom where he’s been treating himself to new clothes, like the Gucci loafers he ordered online and is anxiously waiting the arrival of, he still hasn’t gotten around to acquiring a new briefcase for himself, making do with the wonky latch of his current one in the meantime. It hasn’t posed a threat so far, but this time, as soon as the case hits the ground, the latch snaps and his papers explode out of it.

“Is this a joke?” Eddie explodes, drowning out Richie’s quiet, “Oh shit.”

At once, Eddie immediately kneels down to scope the loose A4 sheets up, glowering at Richie who clambers down onto his knees to help.

“Maybe don’t,” he warns him. Richie, at least, has the decency to look apologetic.

“Dude, I’m sorry! I just wanted to get the elevator.”

Eddie bounces the edge of the paper against his knee so they all align with each other and narrows his eyes in a scowl. “It takes like fifty seconds for this thing to go down and get back up. You just wanted to be Indiana Jones.”

Richie’s eyebrows nearly disappear under the rim of his beanie and he lets out a startled laugh. “Yeah okay, maybe I did.” He snaps his fingers at Eddie. “Wait, is that a musical request for tonight?”

Stuffing his papers back into his briefcase and swearing under his breath at the dodgy clasp, Eddie snaps his head up and fixes Richie with another glare.

“Not even.”

“I mean, I could do it right now,” Richie offers and to Eddie’s horror, he reaches into the front pocket of his hoody and pulls out the goddamn canary yellow recorder that’s served as a torture instrument for Eddie’s ears over the past week.

Just in time, the elevator dings and the doors scrape open yet Richie still seems hellbent on lifting the recorder to his mouth. Thinking fast, Eddie quickly reaches forward and yanks Richie’s beanie down over his face before pushing himself back to his feet and storming out. Richie is still laughing when the elevator doors trundle closed again, leaving him inside.

___

Eddie would be lying if he doesn’t spend the rest of his night, in between sautéing onions and subsequently burning them, listening out for _The Raiders of the Lost Ark_ theme tune.

He’s given up on cooking and settles for ordering pizza when he hears the jagged, pitchy anthem and flops down on the sofa, chuckling to himself.

___

When the chill of March eventually fades away and the blue and grey colour palette of New York opens itself up to the yellow and orange of spring, Eddie finally makes use of his apartment’s balcony. It’s been too cold for him to hang out on before and he’s not a man that can relax and shiver at the same time.

Sliding the door open on a day that’s unseasonably warm even for April, he closes his eyes and tips his face up towards the sun, letting the rays warm his face. God, he loves this apartment.

As if to remind him that he shouldn’t get ahead of himself, he hears the sliding door of the apartment next to him squeak open.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warns.

“I’ve been working on the Death Star theme song,” Richie informs him.

“John Williams should personally kill you himself,” Eddie murmurs calmly before cracking one eye open to peer sideways at Richie.

He’s not wearing his beanie this time and Eddie’s sort of glad to see that it was an accessory of necessity and not a staple fashion piece that Richie would wear well into the summer months. He wouldn’t be able to abide by what he thought of as a crime worse than the goddamn recorder playing.

Without the beanie, Richie’s hair is freer and curlier. Eddie decides he likes it before promptly reminding himself it’s on a purely shallow level because he still believes that Richie is trying his darndest to solidify his status as a thorn in Eddie’s side.

He notes with a small twinge of relief that the recorder is nowhere to be seen either. He doesn’t know which absence to comment on first.

“No recorder?” he settles for. He regrets it the moment Richie flashes him a wicked grin and jabs a thumb over his shoulder.

“I could go get it if you like,” he offers.

“No!” Eddie says quickly and Richie laughs his dumb, snorting, weirdly endearing laugh again. He’s been so used to Myra’s refrained tittering when she finds something amusing, manicured nails hovering over her lips as if to stop any ungainly noises escaping, that it’s weirdly refreshing to see someone so comfortable with their admittedly ugly laugh. Not that it’s a _bad_ sort of ugly, it’s just… well, Richie isn’t trying to stay composed and Eddie supposes he admires that.

“You want me to go back inside?” is Richie’s next offer and Eddie rolls his eyes, only to draw up short when he catches the look on Richie’s face. His face holds no trace of a joke and when he realises he’s being sincere, Eddie’s forehead creases.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t have to.”

“Alright.” Richie nods then braces his forearms on the balcony, gazing down at the street below them.

Not realising what he’s doing until he finds himself staring down at the concrete, Eddie unintentionally mirrors him. Both of their hands are crossed at the wrist, dangling over the wooden railing of their balcony. Eddie glances sideways at the same time Richie does, and as soon as their eyes meet, they huff out a laugh.

It helps Eddie relax a little more.

“So, what brings you to our neck of the woods?” Richie asks.

Eddie lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I got a divorce,” he says simply. It’s always an awkward conversation to ask. Everyone expects a simple answer like the need for a change of scenery, but when you drag marital problems into it, Eddie’s learned to expect the other person to stiffly freeze up and try and change the subject. It’s never _bothered_ him necessarily, so he tromps through the conversation anyway and gives Richie an honest answer, waiting for the stuttered apologies and ensuing awkwardness.

But all Richie does is nod and ask, “Where did you live before?”

“Upstate,” Eddie answers, a little taken aback by the simplicity of the question. Normally the follow-ups are something along the lines of, “How are you coping with it?” or the more intrusive, “Oh dear, what happened?” and he hates answering both of them.

Instead, Richie just raises an eyebrow. “And you moved into the city? The suburbs are where you go _after_ , dude. You’re doing all this backwards. You’re Benjamin Buttoning.”

“Shut up,” Eddie replies good-naturedly. “My job is here so it saves a commute. And I actually don’t mind the city.”

“I heard you cussing out housekeeping’s cleaning products the other day,” Richie jabs at him. Eddie immediately flushes.

He wants to say, “I didn’t know you heard that.” But instead he just shakes his head a little. “So?”

“So isn’t Manhattan a little grimy for you?”

In truth, Eddie does have to hold his breath when he makes his way to his usual takeout place while walking home from work on a Friday. The stench of sewage remains the most rancid smell he’s ever experienced and he’s still deathly afraid of touching a pole on the subway, so he avoids the underbelly of the city completely, but as a whole he really does like the city.

“I feel like I have room to breathe here.”

“Are you sure that isn’t just your newfound single life?” Richie asks, and there’s a teasing lilt to his voice, like he doesn’t realise how much his words have actually hit home for Eddie, whose brows furrow in contemplation as he stares down at the pedestrians.

“Maybe,” he admits.

“Was your partner a ball buster?” Richie asks and Eddie lifts his head to shoot him a warning look. Naturally, Richie just smiles. The fact that he uses the gender-neutral term of ‘partner’ doesn’t go amiss to Eddie either, but he pushes that to the back of his mind to dwell on later.

“She wasn’t… We just weren’t a good match. We weren’t good for each other and this is better.” He gestures vaguely around the balcony to punctuate his sentence.

“I’ve never been married,” Richie supplies out of the blue.

“Huh,” Eddie responds, hunching his shoulders a little against the slight breeze that’s stirred up to ruffle through his shirt. “I’d have thought guys who can’t play the recorder to save their life are like, high in demand right now.”

Richie lets out a funny little honk of agreement. “You’d think. I guess there’s not a lot of folks into schlubby comedians either.”

This only takes Eddie by a mild amount of surprise.

“You’re a comedian?”

“Uh huh.”

“Aren’t comedians meant to be funny?”

Richie reaches over the gap between their balconies to prod Eddie’s shoulder. Catching himself off guard, Eddie lets out what can only be described as a giggle.

“See! I made you laugh!” Richie says, proudly.

“That was a pity laugh.”

“Liar.”

“Shut up.”

“So what do you do, Eds?”

“Don’t call me that. I’m a risk analyst.”

“No, really.”

Eddie draws him a look.

“Oh, you were serious. I’m so sorry,” says Richie, who doesn’t look sorry in the slightest.

“Laugh it up, fuzzball,” Eddie quips, a smile playing on his lips as his gaze immediately slides to Richie again, hoping he’ll get the reference.

He does, of course. “You really want me to play the Death Star theme, don’t you?”

“I absolutely don’t.”

“You do,” Richie insists, backing into his apartment and they keep up their ping-pong argument of no’s and yeses until Richie emerges again, holding the recorder aloft.

“I’m going back inside,” Eddie says, but all he does is retreat to the side of the balcony furthest away from Richie, pushing his elbows back to lean against it.

As soon as Richie puts the instrument to his lips, the sound is horrific and Eddie immediately winces. What Richie may lack in talent though, he sure as hell makes up for in enthusiasm.

“No. Please, no,” Eddie pleads, scrunching his face up and shaking his head.

However, his own aversion to the racket is nothing compared to what a man below has to say.

“Shut the fuck up!” he yells in the broadest and most distinct accent Eddie’s ever heard. His eyes pop wide open and he peers over the side of the balcony.

Richie also seems intrigued and, mercifully, stops playing. “Corleone?” he asks. There’s way too much excitement in his voice for someone who’s about to look over the railing and see a man who’s more Danny Devito than Marlon Brando. Although, from what Eddie can gauge of Richie’s character, that would probably evoke just as much of a thrill.

“What the fuck are you playing?” the man yells. Eddie, for one, is mortified and cringes away from the railing but all Richie does is lean further over and wave the recorder in the air.

“Music!”

“That ain’t called music where I’m from. Cats can yowl better than that!” the man shouts back, red in the face.

“Maybe you know this one!” Richie calls and launches into what Eddie thinks is supposed to be Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

“What did I just fucking say!?” the man roars.

“You want me to play louder?” Richie asks, cupping his hand around his ear.

“Richie, holy shit!” Eddie gasps as the man yells some more and Richie leans further over the balcony and all Eddie can see is danger. He lurches forward, fists a hand in the back of Richie’s shirt and hauls him backwards.

“Hey!” Richie yelps. Tragically, he maintains a good grip on the recorder despite his fright.

“I’ll take it from here!” Eddie shouts down.

“That kinda playin’ deserves the chair!” the passer-by hollers up and Eddie nods enthusiastically.

“That’s what I keep telling him!”

He receives a pointed middle finger before the man is on his way again.

“Brown noser!” Richie snipes.

“Shit stirrer!” Eddie snaps back.

They both stare at each other, the tension catching for a minute or two before it fizzes out and they promptly burst into laughter. Eddie doesn’t hold back, letting loud belly laughs erupt from the back of his throat. It’s the most he’s laughed in years.

___

After that, it’s difficult for Eddie to convince himself that he and Richie aren’t friends. It doesn’t mean he’s at all okay with the recorder playing now, particularly when he’s in the middle of a Zoom call for work and the screeching melody of ‘Hakuna Matata’, that rouses a vocal accompaniment from his co-workers, all but sours his entire mood. He nearly breaks Richie’s door down that day.

But he would probably admit to tolerating Richie.

He allows himself to be the test guinea-pig for Richie’s new comedy material and every time a joke startles a loud and genuine laugh from Eddie, Richie always lifts his head from his cue cards to give him a wide smile.

He’s forever Indiana Jones-ing his way into the elevator during Eddie’s office days and the one morning he doesn’t, Eddie ends up staying in the elevator car for too long, contemplating whether or not to go check on him. Eventually the doors slide closed and make his mind up for him and he travels back up to their floor and hesitantly knocks on Richie’s door which swings upon to reveal a bleary-eyed, red-nosed neighbour on the other side of it. He’s just pitiful looking. After finding out Richie doesn’t own so much as a cough drop, Eddie takes a day’s holiday from work and ransacks Duane Reade’s cold and flu section, forcing a cup of Theraflu into Richie’s hands despite his protests that he’s _fine_.

Once Richie recovers, Eddie doesn’t hold it against him. He doesn’t think Richie is in debt to him, but if he _was_ , he more than makes up for it when he knocks on Eddie’s door whilst the man in question is in the middle of an aubergine-induced breakdown.

Eddie yanks his door open, unsurprised to find Richie on the other side of it.

“What?” he asks in lieu of greeting.

“Guess who just found a John Hughes boxset for three dollars at the thrift store,” Richie announces smugly before his expression morphs into one of confusion. “The fuck is burning in here?”

Eddie huffs and slaps the dish towel he’s holding onto the floor.

“I can’t cook!” he explodes. “Every time I try to make something from scratch it just goes fucking wrong!”

“Okay, what are you making?” Richie asks, side-stepping his way around Eddie so he can come into the apartment. He toes off his sneakers without Eddie asking him to.

“Aubergine parmigiana.” Eddie frowns. “What are you doing?”

“Looks like I’m saving your aubergine parmigiana. Cheer up, Spaghetti,” Richie replies easily enough. As he passes Eddie, he quickly chucks him underneath the chin with two fingers and Eddie doesn’t quite know how to react to that. He stands there dumbly before crouching down to retrieve the dish towel from the floor and following Richie into the kitchen.

“Okay just – bin this,” Richie says, emptying the plate Eddie had been working on into the trash can.

“You cook?” Eddie asks as Richie picks up one of the aubergines Eddie hasn’t absolutely mangled and sets about slicing it with a deft and steady hand.

“You don’t?” Richie teases, softening his words by lifting his head and sending Eddie a quick wink. Again, Eddie is clueless about how to respond and just grips the kitchen counter a little bit tighter.

“So you tell jokes _and_ you cook. Guess the ladies really don’t know what they’re missing out on,” Eddie jokes feebly and immediately feels like he’s missing out on something when Richie throws his head back and laughs loudly. Before he can ask any questions, Richie simply holds out a hand, palm up.

All Eddie can do is stare at it. His heart feels like it’s about to fall straight out of his ass and something shifts inside him, like everything he knows about himself has slotted into alignment while throwing itself off-kilter at exactly the same time.

He keeps looking at Richie’s hand, long-fingered, his thumb jutting out squarely. His nails are ragged looking because Eddie knows fine well that he bites them, but that doesn’t stop him from reaching out and taking Richie’s hand.

Richie, who’d been occupied by surveying Eddie’s lacklustre spice rack, jumps in surprise when Eddie’s palm slides over his, resulting in the two of them staring at each other in confusion. Richie’s eyes dart down to their hands and then to Eddie’s elbow, cocked at an odd angle from where he’d awkwardly taken Richie’s raised hand.

“Eddie,” he says softly, a fond smile on his face. The fact that it’s spoken in the same tone that someone would use to gently break bad news to a child lets Eddie know he’s done something wrong. His eyes widen when Richie continues. “Could you please pass that can of tomatoes?”

Well now Eddie has absolutely no choice to but to fry himself in hot oil and die.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he says loudly and immediately tries to yank his hand back but Richie is too quick. His fingers wrap around his hand quickly, thumb pressing lightly into Eddie’s knuckles and Eddie’s mouth turns into a perfect parabola from how much he’s pouting.

“Do not say a single word,” Eddie warns Richie who’s beaming like he just won the lottery.

“You’re cute, Eds,” is all he says but Eddie decides to take it as an insult and pulls his hand away, grabbing the tin of tomatoes and shoving them harshly towards Richie. The tin can scrapes noisily against the granite countertop.

“Ugh, that noise!” Richie complains.

“That’s exactly what it sounds like when you play your stupid recorder!” Eddie shoots back.

“Right where it hurts!” Richie presses a hand to his chest.

“You’re not staying for dinner,” Eddie tells him.

Richie, obviously, stays for dinner. Eddie is still getting used to the novelty of sitting on the sofa and watching TV while he eats. When he was married to Myra, she abhorred the idea of a TV dinner and they both sat silent and rigid while they ate, forks clinking noisily against their porcelain plates (a wedding gift) on opposite sides of their too-long dining room table.

Now, two plates scraped clean of food sit on his coffee table while he leans back against his sofa cushions and sleepily tries to watch the rest of _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_. Somehow his feet have ended up tucked under the thigh of an equally pliant and docile Richie. Just as Eddie has given up on trying to stay awake, he’s jerked into alertness by Richie sitting ramrod straight

“It’s the parade float scene!”

Eddie gives him a bleary-eyed scowl and is forced to tuck his feet closer to himself now, missing the warmth of Richie’s body weight.

“I can play Twist and Shout on the recorder,” Richie tells him.

“I’m gonna bet that you absolutely can’t,” Eddie grumbles.

He immediately shifts into a state of disbelief, goggling at Richie when the other man produces, as if from thin air, the yellow recorder.

“Have you had that in your pocket the whole time?” Eddie gapes.

Richie clicks his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “No, I was just happy to see you.”

“Do not ruin another classic,” Eddie begs him.

Just as Richie puts the instrument to his lips, that’s when Eddie lunges, rushing forward and jostling both of them on the cushions so he can reach over and try to grab the recorder. He may be speedy, but Richie is pretty fast as well and soon enough he’s holding it just out of Eddie’s reach, laughing loudly at Eddie’s strained and unsuccessful attempts to grab it.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that, Eduardo,” he goads.

Eddie, supporting himself, with one hand splayed on Richie’s chest, stretches his arm out as far as it can go, fingers skimming the plastic side of the recorder. He should have known Richie would play dirty though when he nearly has the damn thing and Richie uses his free hand to poke at Eddie’s side, right in the sensitive spot near his tummy and he immediately lets out a surprised curse and collapses on top of Richie.

“Oof!” they both say at once, but Richie begins laughing while Eddie keeps up a creative stream of swear words.

“Useless big tall sack of untalented fucking shit asshole,” he mutters, finally raising himself up again at the exact same time Richie tips his head forward. Their noses brush as they were bound to do and Eddie’s breath hitches in his throat. He pulls back a little bit, not too much for the whole thing to turn into a big deal but enough to drink in the sight of Richie blinking owlishly at him from behind the smudged lenses of his glasses. Of the slight stubble coating his jaw. Of the way his Adam’s apple is bobbing nervously in his throat. Of the way he catches Eddie’s gaze and Eddie feels himself slip into something new and unfamiliar.

It’s Richie who breaks the silence first. As usual.

“I should probably head home,” he says, like he lives all the way across the city and not a mere one apartment over. Eddie’s heart sinks.

“Yeah,” he nods. He mumbles something about having an early work day tomorrow even though his office hours are rigid and routine and like clockwork. “Thanks for dinner.”

He crawls back off Richie and presses himself into his own little corner of the couch, drawing his knees up to his chest and trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Ain’t no problem,” Richie says. And, as if sensing the sudden tension, he throws Eddie a bone. “Eds.”

Eddie gratefully accepts the easy segueway back into their usual bickering. “Don’t call me that,” he smiles.

He tries not to look at Richie’s retreating figure, although in his peripheral he catches Richie stooping down to pick up his shoes because there’s no point in him putting them back on just to walk along the hallway.

As soon as the door closes behind Richie, Eddie immediately lets out a long groan and flops forward into the sofa, childishly pounding his fists against the arm of it.

Yeah, his apartment has everything. Basement gym, efficient elevator, high standard of cleanliness, no-smoking rule, blah blah blah. But he didn’t count on it coming with a next door neighbour he has a goddamn crush on.

___

So maybe he likes Richie.

Actually, let’s put it into perspective.

He thinks that Richie is attractive. He’s a tall man with good hair and a nice face. Eddie is allowed to find him handsome, that’s totally normal. He also likes hanging out with Richie but his social circle has been heavily diluted since his divorce was settled and Myra apparently won their little ring of acquaintances in the proceedings which Eddie has yet to grieve over. He got to keep Ben and Bev because Myra held no love for them whatsoever, and he’d rather count on one hand the friends he has rather than mourn the loss of Myra’s book club who deemed a discussion about _The Vagina Monologues_ far too risqué for a luncheon.

Still, when the opportunity to meet new people came along, he supposes he grasped at it with both hands, landing him in the path of Richie who, admittedly, isn’t bad company. Bar his terrible musical ability, Richie is funny and has good taste in movies and doesn’t mind when Eddie starts freaking out about brown spots on his banana skins; he simply repurposes them for a killer banana bread. Oh, and there’s another thing – he cooks as well, which is more than Eddie can say for himself.

So it makes sense that Richie is someone Eddie would gravitate towards, but he tells himself that jumping to the conclusion that he had a crush on his neighbour was far too melodramatic. Plus, he’s nearly forty years old. Are you even allowed to have a crush on someone past the age of twelve?

He boils his constant aching to be near Richie down to a byproduct of their close proximity. It’s so convenient for him that his next door neighbour also happens to be one of his closest and only friends. Of course he wants to be near him constantly because his heart feels a little bit lighter when he’s around Richie.

It makes sense that he wants to make Richie laugh at one of his jokes for a change.

It’s normal to hyperactively obsessive over the sensation of Richie’s hand in his, as fleeting as the moment was.

He figures that every Average Joe constantly overanalyses the looks their friend gives them over the rim of his morning coffee, the gaze that lingers a little too long and leaves him feeling like his breath is trapped in his throat.

Come to think of it, it’s completely, absurdly normal for him to draw up the conclusion that he’s totally and utterly fucked.

___

Naturally, his first course of action is to devise a plan to make sure that Richie never finds out, which is a simple operation consisting of trying not to be around him so much and ensuring he never looks at the other man for more than five seconds. It’s a little lacklustre, he knows that, but he’s sort of flying by the seat of his pants right now and Richie is a constant, looming presence in his life so if it’s difficult for him to put a great amount of space between them, he’ll just… never look at the guy again.

The next step is, in short, to get over him.

He knows that this may be easier said than done, since he’s wholly fallen into an all-consuming crush without even realising until it was too late. How to get back out of it seems like a difficult challenge. The only other person he’s had to get over in his life is Myra, and that was pretty easy. All he had to do was figure out he was gay and it was smooth sailing from then on.

He doubts that’s going to help in this situation. If anything, it will likely make things worse.

So for the very first time in his life, he bites the bullet and does the one thing he’s been stubbornly refusing to do ever since he came out. He downloads Grindr.

At first, it’s too embarrassing, almost too aggressive for him to scroll through and he deletes and redownloads the app three times before falling into a casual conversation with a man named Mark who’s a health inspector from the New York State Department of Health, which appeals to Eddie in a few different ways.

After a day or two of admittedly dry conversation, Eddie accepts Mark’s offer of a date.

When Richie suggests they hang out that night, Eddie stares at the text for five minutes, thumb hovering over his keypad. Eventually, he sends Richie a short reply, apologising and saying that he can’t. He has plans. He doesn’t specify what they are.

___

Mark is polite, well-mannered and so fucking boring.

Eddie spears his fork through his mushroom ravioli while his date drones on about a specific case of e-coli found in a diner Eddie will never go to in his entire life. The whole evening is so dull that he’s three quarters of the way through their shared bottle of wine when Mark invites himself over to Eddie’s apartment, and the room is spinning pleasantly enough for Eddie to agree.

When they’re in the elevator, Mark leans over and kisses him and it’s… nice. Just a dry press of lips but still better than any of the kisses he had with Myra. There are no fireworks but he’s never really believed in that and simply opens his mouth a little wider to deepen the kiss. When the elevator doors open again, he feels more than a little breathless.

Just as they reach his door and Eddie fumbles trying to get his key into the lock, Mark kissing at the back of his neck in a way that tickles, the inevitable happens.

Richie’s door opens, cutting a pizza slice of orange glow across Eddie and Mark’s faces. They look up at the same time and Eddie’s ravioli threatens to come right back up when he sees Richie standing there, eyes wide as he stares back at them.

“Eddie,” he manages, clearly taken aback with the sight of a man draping himself over his neighbour like Yoda on Dagobah.

“Hi, Richie,” he says when he finds his voice. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Richie frowns. “It’s like, barely nine o’clock.”

That’s all it is? God, this evening blew.

When Eddie continues to stare dumbly at him, Richie continues, “I just thought I heard you out here. Figured I’d ask if you wanted to come in but, my mistake, you’ve got company.”

Eddie can’t help but wonder: is it his imagination or is Richie’s smile downright manic? He’s staring at the two of them, Eddie and Mark, eyes darting between them both.

“Sorry, man,” Mark says, exaggeratedly sucking air through his teeth and grinning like he’s not sorry at all. His hands are still digging into Eddie’s waist.

“Sorry, Rich, we were just…” With his key, Eddie uselessly points to his door. His eyes rake over Richie, lanky as ever, his hair curly and wild. Mark is sturdily built but with blonde hair and small teeth and Eddie suddenly wonders why he even bothered starting a conversation with him, which isn’t the sort of thoughts you want to be having about the guy you planned to stick your dick in five minutes ago.

“Course!” Richie says quickly. He gives them a double thumbs up and Eddie wants to die. “Have fun you too, I’ll go grab the ear plugs.”

Eddie definitely wants to die and Mark’s raucous laughter only serves to set him further on edge.

Eventually, he gets his door open and the two of them cross the threshold. He doesn’t see Richie going back into his own apartment but assumes he’s shut the door as well.

Immediately, Mark’s mouth is on his again and Eddie tries to kiss him back as enthusiastically as possible even though his brain feels like its been left one door down. But he helps Mark in shrugging his blazer off and makes sure they’ve both removed their shoes.

“Where’s your bedroom?” Mark asks, trailing his mouth down Eddie’s neck.

“Through…” Eddie goes to point towards the door, but remembers that the only thing separating his room from Richie’s is one thin wall. He pulls back and looks at Mark. “Actually, I want to do it on the couch.”

Mark takes a minute to look puzzled but eventually shrugs. “Fine by me.”

Five minutes later and they’re both sloppily making out on the sofa, Eddie in Mark’s lap, grinding down, trying to create some sort of friction. His thrusts, admittedly, are half-hearted at best as he trails his hands over Mark’s bare shoulders and wishes they were bigger, broader. He wishes his hair was less blonde and coiffed and more… brunette and unruly. And Mark either has contact lenses in or the guy has perfect vision, but Eddie finds himself silently imagining him with thick glasses and an inability to see three feet in front of him without them.

The answer to those wishes, the message perhaps turning a little garbled and incoherent by the time it reaches whatever higher deity is in charge of all that stuff, comes in the form of a high piercing whistle sounding from the wall.

“What the hell is that?” Mark asks, his head shooting up like a meerkat.

Eddie, still in his lap, can only sigh. “It’s the Jurassic Park theme.”

“It doesn’t _sound_ like it…”

“Yeah, I know,” Eddie says resignedly. He tries to push his frustrations away and leans back into kiss Mark when Richie hits a particularly bad note and the sharp squeak reverberates around the whole apartment. He pulls back.

“Can you excuse me for like, one second? I’ll be right back,” he says, scrambling out of Mark’s grip and pulling his shirt back on, hastily buttoning it back up, the buttons mismatched as he throws his door open and marches down the hallway to hammer on Richie’s.

The music is cut off and Eddie can hear Richie’s footsteps come closer to the door. When it opens, he glares up at the other man.

“Tonight? Really?”

“No, that was Jurassic Park. If you want me to play Tonight, I can try a few bars but it’s sure been a while since I tried my hand at West Side Story. I’d probably be better at something like Gee, Officer Krupke,” Richie rambles, still peering down interestedly at his recorder and refusing to meet Eddie’s gaze.

“Are you really being this way right now?” Eddie asks. “Dude! I’m trying to do something here.”

“Oh yeah, with your friend in there,” Richie quips. Eddie can’t help but reel back a little at the bitterness of his tone.

“Are you mad because I’m hooking up with a guy?” he asks, his voice sounding small to his own ears.

Richie’s head jerks up and he finally looks at him, eyes round with alarm. “What?”

“I mean… are you like, homophobic or something?” The thought makes him want to cry. They’ve never explicitly talked about Eddie being gay but what with everything he’d said about things not working out with Myra… oh okay so, he’s never actually explained it to Richie in so many words and, shit, what if this is what finally drives a wedge between them, bigger than the one Eddie’s been trying to force for a while now. At least now he’ll get what he wanted and won’t have to spend so much time with Richie, especially if he finds out about Eddie’s massive raging crush on him.

To his sheer and utter mortification, Richie lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

“It’s not fucking funny, Richie,” Eddie says, wrapping his arms around himself.

When Richie realises that Eddie isn’t joking, he sobers up a little.

“Eddie, are you serious? Like, actually?”

Eddie glares. “Why would I joke about something like this?”

He has no idea what to do with the expression on Richie’s face up until the other man shakes his head in disbelief and says, “Eds, what the fuck? I’m gay.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Eddie says, echoing the only coherent thought in his head right now.

“You thought I was homophobic?” Richie asks and there’s something in his tone, a little bit vulnerable and hurt, that makes Eddie think he might have offended Richie.

“I just… You didn’t seem happy to see us together…” Eddie ventures because it’s the easiest explanation to latch onto and he can’t say it isn’t true. “And now you’re playing you’re fucking recorder and… distracting us.” He waves a hand in the air to emphasise his point.

Richie stares at him until Eddie has no choice but to look at him.

“You’re really stupid, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says, half-fond, half-exasperated and Eddie blushes bright red.

“Yeah, I just thought…” he trails off with a mumble.

“No, I mean…” Richie pushes a hand through his hair and Eddie’s stomach flips when his curls flop back over his forehead. “Jeeze, never mind.”

“What?” Eddie pushes. Something is telling him to push.

“Forget it,” Richie tells him, dismissively. “I’ll shut up now and shove this thing in a drawer. You should get back to your company.”

“Richie.”

“Nights, Eds.”

After Richie closes his door, Eddie remains rooted to the spot in the hallway. He stares at the slab of wood in front of him, still tipsy and more than a little confused. All he knows for sure is that there’s no way he’s having sex with Mark tonight. He figures he can give the guy money for his Uber home.

___

He doesn’t see Richie for a few days after that, mainly because both of them appear to be making the unspoken decision not to contact the other. Eddie misses him with a ferocity that’s almost painful but he’s still confused about Richie’s weird anger towards him and he feels hurt enough by it that his pride won’t let him make the first move.

When he hears a knock on his door though, he nearly trips over himself trying to get to it so he can open it.

It’s not Richie on the other side though.

“Bev!” he grins when he’s suddenly greeted with an armful of enthusiastic redhead.

“Eddie, this apartment is amazing! A man held the door open for me! In New York!” she squeals as soon as she lets him go. She’s so excited that he doesn’t want to tell her that’s Irv the doorman, and he gets paid to hold doors open for people. Why rain on her parade?

“I haven’t seen you in ages. Wedding prep is taking over my life and I can’t tell my gardenias from my peonies,” she tells him, dramatically flopping down onto one of his kitchen chairs.

He grins, an instinctive reaction to Bev’s presence, and takes the chair next to her.

“So how’ve you been?” she asks, reaching over to clasp his hand. Her engagement ring sparkles in the warm afternoon light.

“I’m good,” he tells her and it’s barely a lie. Less than a half-lie. Bar the whole thing with Richie, he’s felt the best that he has in years and Bev smiles warmly at him when he tells her about how he eats dinner on the sofa now so he never misses an episode of _Law and Order_.

“I’m really happy for you, Eds. You deserve it.”

Bev’s never treated him like he was fragile. She’s never walked on eggshells around him or circled around the truth so he always trusts her to be sincere and honest. He gives her hand a little squeeze.

“Thanks, Bev.”

They continue to smile at each other, two friends enjoying a quiet afternoon together. Naturally it’s disrupted by James fucking Galway as his bedroom wall rattles with another musical monstrosity.

Eddie doesn’t even know where to begin explaining this to Bev, but it appears that he doesn’t have to.

“Is that Bella’s Lullaby?” Bev exclaims, shoving her chair back and jumping to her feet.

“I think it’s trying to be?” Eddie ventures, even though he has no idea what Bella’s Lullaby should sound like. He just knows that it definitely isn’t this.

Bev is the most tone deaf person he knows. One time they went to a karaoke bar and were asked to leave because the bride from a bachelorette party claimed that her cover of Time After Time ruined her whole evening. But maybe her god-given right to refuse to sing a single note in key has made her privy to what a song _should_ sound like when she’s in similar tuneless company.

“I’m pretty sure it is!” she nods excitedly. “You know. Bella’s Lullaby. From Twilight.”

He gives her a blank stare and she huffs impatiently.

“Who’s _playing_ it?”

“That’d be my neighbour, Richie.” He sinks further down in his chair as soon as he sees the way Bev’s whole frame perks up because he knows what’s coming next.

“Can I meet him?”

His first instinct is to say no, because he’s pretty sure that he’s an unwelcome party over at Richie’s apartment right now, but he’s never denied Bev anything and he really does want that music to stop. So he heaves a sigh and pushes himself out of his chair.

This time when Richie opens the door, his smile is a little bemused when he realises Eddie is accompanied by a smiling redhead who wants to know when and where his deep-rooted Twilight obsession came from. And honestly, Eddie would sort of like to know that too.

“Uh… I have a sister?” Richie says, still sounding a little wary. His gaze slides to Eddie momentarily, only for long enough to convey a quick and silent look that reads _so who is this?_ Then his eyes abruptly return to Bev.

“Richie, this is my best friend, Beverly. Bev, this is my neighbour, Richie.”

When they shake hands, Richie gives her an exaggerated bow and in the space between that unnecessary display of melodramatic chivalry and Eddie’s deep, long-suffering sigh, Bev is absolutely charmed.

“You guys wanna come in for some banana bread?” His eyes flicker over to Eddie’s but it’s not like he can give him an answer because Bev is already bouncing into his apartment and complimenting his vintage movie posters.

“Thanks,” Richie smiles as he cuts his banana loaf into slices for them. Eddie closes the door behind him. “That’s one of my favourites.” He nods to the _ET_ poster Bev is standing next to.

“That’s one of Eddie’s favourite movies as well!” To those who didn’t know her, Bev’s tone would sound completely innocent and harmless, but Eddie’s known this woman since college and he spots the lilt in her voice right away. As soon as she locks eyes with him, she quickly winks before turning back to the poster.

“He even has an ET sweater,” she supplies.

“Yeah, he wore that his first day here,” Richie smiles and abruptly stops cutting the bread. He pauses for a few seconds, eyes trained on the loaf before he resumes the process again after a beat too long.

Eddie frowns, casting his mind back to the first day he’d stormed Richie’s apartment and fallen for his dumb fake sob story. “No,” he says, a little unsurely. “I was wearing a shirt the day we met. It was my blue V-neck.”

By this point, Richie is slicing an unnecessary amount of banana bread. He remains silent, which rouses more suspicion in Eddie than him shrugging it off would

“I wore the ET sweater the first day I moved in but we didn’t speak that day,” Eddie recalls. Richie looks like he’s about to use his bread knife to saw through the countertop.

Bev is pointedly staring at the poster with such intensity, someone could be inclined to believe she just really freaking loves Amblin Entertainment.

“Richie?” Eddie asks.

Finally, Richie sets the knife down.

“What?” he whispers, his expression helpless.

“Did you see me moving in or something?” It’s not that weird. Eddie doesn’t think so, which is why he’s baffled by Richie’s behaviour right now.

“Yeah,” Richie replies after a few seconds. He gives Eddie a tiny shrug. “Course I noticed you.”

_Oh_.

When it becomes clear that those words seem to have severed the link between Eddie’s brain and mouth, Bev eventually whirls around.

“I need to use the bathroom!” she announces. Richie gestures vaguely to a closed door to her left and she shakes her head, ponytail swinging. “I actually only use Eddie’s.”

Before either of them can say anything, she disappears out Richie’s door, leaving the two of them standing awkwardly in the apartment. Eddie ventures a smile, still refusing to get his hopes up.

“You could’ve come and introduced yourself instead of waiting for me to do it,” Eddie says, taking a cautious step forward so they’re both standing on the same side of the kitchen counter.

“I invited you over,” Richie tells him and Eddie lets out a loud scoff at that.

“You absolutely did not!” he argues.

“Oh, sure I did,” Richie says, mouth twitching like there’s some sort of inside joke that Eddie isn’t a part of. And he doesn’t care for that shit at all.

“How the fuck did you? I didn’t get the memo!”

Richie looks over at him and holds his gaze for a long steady moment and Eddie feels like someone’s cut the elevator cable and he’s plummeting into a freefall. He watches as Richie reaches over to pick up something.

“Tell me you’re not serious right now,” Eddie groans as soon as he realises what it is.

Richie ignores him as he puts the recorder to his mouth. And then proceeds to play a pitch perfect rendition of the ET theme song.

Eddie’s jaw falls open immediately.

Richie doesn’t get a single note wrong. It flows smoothly and is easily recognisable without any pitchy accidents. It’s like he’s been playing this song for his entire goddamn life. He catches Eddie’s eye and eventually brings the recorder back down.

Eddie blinks. “What the fuck just happened?”

Still, Richie remains silent, cautiously watching Eddie like he’s afraid he might hit him or something.

“You can play the recorder,” Eddie states.

“Yes.”

Eddie dares to take another step forward.

“You can play the recorder _well_.”

“Uh huh.”

Eddie’s mind flashes back to every single time Richie’s off-key music has pierced his bedroom wall, pulling his focus and sending him to Richie’s door. It was the reason he first approached Richie and got to know him in the first place. His mind feels weirdly fuzzy.

“Then why did you pretend to be bad at it?”

They’re standing toe to toe now, Eddie looking up at Richie who’s looking right back at him. There’s an audible clink as he sets the recorder down on the counter, his eyes never leaving Eddie’s.

“Guy who looks like you. How else would I get your attention?”

Eddie pushes himself up and Richie meets him halfway, their mouths catching each other at an angle and instead of correcting it, Eddie just melts into it. _This_ , he thinks, _this_ is what they meant by ‘fireworks’.

His brain seems to short circuit when Richie kisses him back, a warm mouth sliding against his own as Eddie squeezes his shut to prolong the sensation of getting absolutely fucking lost in Richie.

“Eds,” Richie mumbles against his lips.

“Stop,” Eddie hushes him, winding his arms around Richie’s neck, feeling Richie’s arms slide around his waist in response. He arches up against him, one hand immediately reaching up to card through Richie’s curls which has the same urgent sense of _finally_ as this damn kiss does.

“God, your fucking _face_ ,” Eddie growls, pulling back to drag his lips along Richie’s stubble, revelling in the way it scratches against his skin.

“All good there, Spaghetti?” Richie asks, his vice sounding strangled and far away.

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says, muffling his retort by pressing their mouths together again. There’s no room for hesitancy or doubt between them, both of their intentions solid and clear but because Eddie is Eddie he still can’t help himself and jerks his head back.

“I thought you were mad at me!” He’s frowning up at Richie with as much sternness as he can conjure up.

Richie huffs out a laugh and lifts his hand to run his thumb along Eddie’s cheekbone. Eddie nearly keels over into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. “Wait, no, don’t to that until you answer my question!” he says, shaking his head wildly.

“I _was_ mad at you,” Richie smiles. “I thought we had like, a moment at yours that night I made you dinner.”

“We _did_.”

“Then why the hell did you go on a date with some other guy?”

Eddie’s eyes pop open. “I was trying to get over _you_.”

Now it’s Richie’s turn to look baffled. “ _Why?_ You didn’t think I was into you?”

“I didn’t think you were gay!”

“Yeah, you did fucking imply that,” Richie snorts. “Dumbass.”

He softens his words by pressing his face into Eddie’s neck, his lips trailing kisses along his pulse point and Eddie can’t help but let his head tilt back. God, is this what it was meant to feel like all along? He’s been missing out on _this?_

“Did you start playing that stupid recorder to cockblock me?” he manages to choke out.

“Did it work?” He can _feel_ Richie smiling against his neck.

“Yeah,” he admits breathily. “I sent him home. He wasn’t you.”

Richie moans against him at that and the vibration of it makes Eddie’s breath catch in his throat. “Rich, kiss me.”

Richie doesn’t need to be told twice, and this time it’s hungrier. Less gentle, more urgent and Eddie doesn’t bother to hold back a moan as soon as Richie slides his tongue into his mouth. He clutches as the other man’s shirt collar, trying to tug him impossibly closer until they’re crowding each other into the corner unit of the kitchen.

“Rich, can we-”

“Bed?”

“Fuck. Please.”

They burst into Richie’s bedroom, still kissing each other and Eddie’s feels like his whole body is on fire. “Please,” he’s saying again.

“What is it?” Richie asks, gently pushing Eddie’s hair back from his forehead. “What do you want?”

“You.” Eddie pulls him forward again. “I want you.”

In response, Richie walks him backwards towards the bed, both of them crawling back until Eddie is lying, flushed and wanting, against the pillows and Richie is reaching behind him to tug his shirt off. He pauses halfway through, a sliver of bare skin teasing Eddie. Just when he’s about to ask what the fucking hold up is, he catches the hesitant look on Richie’s face.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

Eddie props himself up on his elbows, his hand coming down to cup Richie’s cheek, thumb gently tracing the seams of Richie’s lips which automatically part under his touch. His thumb is met by Richie’s tongue and there’s no stopping Eddie from letting out a whine.

“Richie, please take your fucking shirt off right now.” He drops his hand from Richie’s mouth and uses it to lightly backhand his shoulder.

Grinning, Richie does as instructed, and as soon as the shirt is off, Eddie is pushing himself up onto his knees to run his palms down his front. His fingers trail through patches of dark hair and he’s about two seconds away from drooling.

“You’re so fucking hot.”

“Are you kidding me? Coming from you and that hot little bod. Compared to you I’m like – oh _shit_.” Refusing to hear Richie say anything self-deprecating while he’s the reason his cock is thickening in his jeans right now, Eddie leans forward to suck Richie’s nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it. He feels Richie’s hand clench automatically in his hair and moans his approval.

He pulls back only so he can tug his own shirt off then resumes his task of licking a wet stripe up Richie’s chest.

“Eddie, you’re fucking killing me. You’re so fucking _good_.”

And Eddie guesses that does something to him because he immediately whines and presses the heel of his hand against his crotch. The denim rubs at him and he hisses at once.

“Need some help there?” Richie grins and Eddie pulls back, one hand going to the button of his own jeans and the other awkwardly trying to unbutton Richie’s. He has little success with either and snaps.

“God, I just need like fucking _no one_ in this room to be wearing any clothes right now.”

Richie’s warm laughter rushes over him as they both hastily unzip their jeans, gracelessly tugging them off and throwing them somewhere on the floor. Eddie really doesn’t give a fuck where they land, because suddenly Richie’s hands are sliding up the backs of his calves, tucking themselves into the fold of his knees so he can be yanked onto his back. Richie tugs Eddie’s legs up so they’re around his waist and Eddie is hit with the absolutely delightful epiphany that being manhandled like this is a huge fucking turn on for him.

It’s nothing compared to the way Richie’s weight settles on top of him as he presses his own hips against Eddie’s through his boxers and the garbled cry that tears itself from Eddie’s throat would be embarrassing if he didn’t have other, more pressing matters on his mind, like getting his hands past the waistband of Richie’s underwear so he can grab his ass.

As soon as he does, Richie ducks down to moan into Eddie’s mouth, their lips barely catching each other as Eddie gasps and lets out a sharp ‘ah!’ as Richie steadily grinds against him.

He hisses Riche’s name.

“Yeah?”

“That feels so fucking good.”

“Just wait,” Richie says and then the pressure is gone and Eddie’s hips are winding pathetically into the air, trying to regain that feeling of friction, just looking for fucking anything to rub against. It hadn’t been like that with Mark. There’d been some dull sparks, but this? Eddie feels _alight_.

And then Richie’s mouth is pressing kisses down his stomach, licking hungrily at the result of Eddie’s French presses at the gym. He’s pretty damn proud of the muscles carving themselves into his torso at that moment, if only for the way Richie leans his forehead against Eddie’s chest, glasses digging into the skin in a way that’s strangely comfortable.

“How are you _real?_ ”

“Shut up,” Eddie says, flustered.

He supposes Richie takes him for his word because as soon as he peels Eddie’s boxers down, an embarrassingly large wet patch on them already, his mouth is preoccupied. He drags his tongue through the hair on Eddie’s thighs, dipping closer and closer to where Eddie is leaking pre-come over himself. Every time Eddie thinks this is it, that Richie is finally about to put him out of his misery, he pulls away again and Eddie is getting really impatient.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” he whines, sounding bratty and frustrated.

Richie props himself up onto his elbows to shoot him a look that says _really?_

“I’m just enjoying the view,” he states. “I mean you’re such a sexy, little compact thing and then you pull your dick out and it’s like _bam._ ”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Look at it!” Richie insists.

“Yeah, Richie, it’s a dick. A woefully fucking unattended dick.”

“It’s fucking huge. I figured you might be packing, but not this much.”

Eddie’s face is red hot, but he can’t deny the twinge of pride he feels. “Richie…”

“Seriously, it’s like… the Indominus Rex of dicks!”

Eddie flops back against the pillows, one arm thrown over his eyes as his full body heaves with giggles. “Can you please never compare my dick to a dinosaur again?”

“Uhhh, the biggest, sexiest dinosaur there is,” Richie grins, his thumb pressing comforting little circles into Eddie’s leg.

“Go fuck a raptor then if you’re so into them.”

“Your dick is much sexier than a raptor.”

“Yeah, so you said. I mean, Indominus Rex isn’t even a real dinosaur. They literally made it up for the – _fuck!_ ”

Whatever else Eddie has to say is promptly forgotten by the warm, wet vice of Richie’s mouth. There’s unrelenting pressure around his cock and he feels a heady pleasure tingle all the way down his thighs as Richie bobs his head up and down, one hand stroking the base until he presses his tongue against the tip in a quick lick before taking Eddie down fully.

“Shit, oh fuck, Richie. _Richie_.”

His head is practically thrashing against the pillows as his hips twitch upwards. He isn’t even sure when he started up a little undulating, repetitive chant of _fuck! fuck! fuck!_ but when it reaches his own ears, he knows he’s getting louder.

“Fuck – Richie, your hair. Can I?”

In response, Richie reaches out his free hand to circle his fingers around Eddie’s wrist so he can drag Eddie’s hand over to his head. Eddie gets the message, sinking his hand into Richie’s hair and giving it an experimental little tug. Richie’s answering moan sends Eddie’s other hand scrambling for purchase on the duvet cover.

“Richie, fuck, stop, I’m gonna come.”

The hot press of Richie’s mouth seems to get tighter as Richie runs his tongue more firmly against him as if to say, _that’s the whole point_. But Eddie wants him up next to him.

“No, I want – I want to come together,” he pants, and it’s a credit to how turned on he is that he manages to say that with only minimal blushing. A fully dressed Edward Kaspbrak would never be so bold, but a horny, so-hard-it-nearly-hurts Eddie is a bit more forthcoming about asking for what he wants.

It’s agonisingly slow when Richie pulls his mouth away, still sucking him until the very last minute when his lips part from the tip of his cock with a wet smack. His hair is feathery and messy from where Eddie’s hands have messed it up and his mouth looks downright ravaged. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say Eddie nearly comes untouched at the sight of him, but he manages to stave off his orgasm in favour of sliding his hand under Richie’s armpit to tug him closer.

“I need you up here,” he says.

“Sure thing, Eds,” Richie says and his voice sounds _wrecked_. From having Eddie’s _dick_ in his _mouth_. It’s a strangely bolstering thought. “How do you want it?”

“I don’t think I can hold out much longer,” Eddie says shakily, the skin of his chest turning blotchy and pink at the admission and Richie reaches down to kiss it. “Maybe just take your boxers off and we can… Your hand?”

Thank fuck Richie is clever enough to fill in the gaps because he wastes no times in stripping himself of his underwear and bracing himself on all fours above Eddie. Before he can reach out, Eddie catches his hand.

“Hey,” he whispers and Richie stares at him, rapt with attention and Eddie’s heart could burst. “I want to be on top next time.”

Something darkens in Richie’s eyes and he surges forward to kiss Eddie again, reaching between them so he can wrap his hand around both their cocks. The two of them let out a loud moan, Richie’s deep and guttural whilst Eddie’s is preceded by a sharp ‘ah!’ of pleasure.

“Are you close?” Eddie asks, craning his neck so drop little smatterings of kisses against Richie’s shoulder.

“Are you kidding me?” Richie huffs, thrusting his hips forward as Eddie’s own hips shift upwards, fucking himself into Richie’s hand. His vision is whitening out at the edges and he wonders if that’s safe, but then again, he’s never felt something as good and intense as this. “I’ve been on the edge since you started making those noises earlier. I’m gonna be jerking off to the thought of that for weeks.”

“Why the _fuck_ are you gonna be jerking off when I’m right next door?” Eddie hisses, feeling a tight heat starting to appear in his lower stomach.

“That’s true,” Richie agrees. “You gonna come over and fuck me instead?”

All Eddie can do is nod helplessly, Richie’s words bringing him closer and closer. “Keep talking,” he begs.

“I bet you’d stretch me out real good. Fuck, I want to sit on your dick so badly, Eds. I’ve wanted it for so long.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’d feel so good. You _already_ feel fucking amazing. Eddie, are you close? Baby?”

It’s the ‘baby’ that does it and Eddie twists his face into the pillow. He lets out a gasp as pleasure curls tight between his legs then spirals out in one burst through his whole body, painting his vision blurry as he pushes his hips up and up and up. “Fuck, fuck! I’m coming!”

The words barely leave him before he’s coming over Richie’s hand and his own stomach.

“God, Eddie, you look so hot. Fuck. I’m…” Richie pushes his hips forward, still rutting against Eddie’s cock in a wet slide until he tenses up and chases his own orgasm with a loud cry of Eddie’s name.

His mouth falls open and he squeezes his eyes shut, a puckering of his eyebrows drawing them together. He’s so fucking beautiful and all Eddie can do is drink in the sight of him while he waits for Richie to come back to him.

“Jesus, that was…” Eddie tries for, but his vocabulary is failing him. Richie flops down bonelessly next to him.

Exhausted and fucked out, Eddie still finds the energy to roll onto his side and seek out Richie’s mouth for a slow, languid kiss. He can taste himself on Richie’s tongue and he doesn’t find it nearly as gross as he thought he would. He pulls away so he can get a good look at Richie’s face and is happy to see his own dopey smile mirrored there.

“Eddie.”

“Richie.”

“So everyone present enjoyed that, right?”

Eddie huffs out a disbelieving laugh and curls back into the pillow, humming in contentment when Richie reaches out to gently press his thumb into the jut of Eddie’s hipbone. He kind of wants to shower the sticky mess off him, but he’s also pretty happy to lie here for the next five, ten, however many minutes if Richie is going to keep looking at him like that.

“We enjoyed it,” Eddie nods.

“Awesome.” Richie holds up his hand for a high five and Eddie breathlessly rolls his eyes before reaching up to slap his palm half-heartedly off of Richie’s.

“So what does that make us now?” Richie asks. Eddie watches as his teeth gnaw nervously at his bottom lip, still red and kiss-swollen and it makes him want to steal another. He only barely manages to refrain because it seems like they have more pressing matters to attend to.

There’s no point in being coy about it and he wants to wipe the concerned look away from Richie’s face.

“Well, boyfriends obviously,” he says, his tone dripping with an unspoken ‘duh!’

Richie’s smile is blinding. He rushes forward to kiss Eddie’s face and who knows where the intended target was but he leaves a gentle peck against his eyebrow and Eddie is teetering dangerously close to a confession that it might be too soon for right now.

“Boyfriends,” Richie smiles with such a happy certainty that Eddie is content in the reassurance that he’ll get to say it one day. Until then, he inches closer towards Richie to lay his head against his shoulder.

“Hey… I can’t believe if we’d just been upfront, we could’ve been doing this ages ago,” Richie points out, interlocking their fingers together after they’re steepled on top of his chest.

“We’re doing it now,” Eddie says.

“Yeah. But consider this: I’ve been blowing that recorder for _months_ when I could’ve been blowing your goddamn dino dick!”

Eddie stretches up to smash Richie’s grinning face into his pillow, planting kiss after kiss against his cheek and calling him a variety of nicknames associated with assholes.

**Author's Note:**

> As always you can find me on twitter @rxpunzelss


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